


Come to Kansas

by fannishlyyours



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 08:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19884643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishlyyours/pseuds/fannishlyyours
Summary: It’s Dean’s first year at the art fair. He’s put up stalls at smaller shows, started at farmers and artisans markets, but has never showcased at anything as big and intimidating as the Kansas Art Fair.





	Come to Kansas

It’s Dean’s first year at the art fair. He’s put up stalls at smaller shows, started at farmers and artisans markets, but has never showcased at anything as big and intimidating as the Kansas Art Fair. When he arrives at the artist check-in, a volunteer wearing a neon pink shirt that says “Art Fair Volunteer” hands him a map, a brochure, and a stall number. He whistles as he reads the map. Seven streets have been blocked off for the fair, over two miles of space, the map showing a ‘U’ tilted on its side and married to an E. The top of the sheet reads, “Proudly Featuring 375 Jury-Selected Artists.” Boy, did they get it wrong with him.

He sticks the map and stall number in the brochure, rolls it up, and stuffs it into his back pocket. Walks back to the truck where Sam is idling.   


“Where we going?” Sam asks.

“First Street, stall SF901,” Dean says, getting into the passenger seat of the truck.

“That’s close to Main, good location.”

Dean grunts as Sam drives them there. The roads are blocked, but more volunteers decked out in neon pink gear wave them through, probably noticing the full truck bed. His stall is towards the middle of the street and Sam immediately deems it a great spot.   


“Great spot? They’re all the same,” Dean scoffs.   


“They are not,” Sam argues. “People are either too eager or too exhausted to see everything at the ends. The middle will hold maximum attention. This is good, Dean.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean waves him off. Of course Sam is enthusiastic. It was his damn idea to enter into the fair. Dean was happy with his little farmers market haul, but Sam had to go bigger. Wasn’t enough that he’d gone all big with his law degree; he had to get everyone else, too.   


“You’re crabby,” Sam mutters as he starts to unload.

Dean sighs internally. Yeah, he’s been a bitch the entire week leading up to the fair, but he’ll be damned before he admits it to Sam.

They spend the next ninety minutes unloading and setting up the displays. With the exception of a few directions, they don’t talk much. When they finish, Sam closes up the back of the truck and pulls out the keys. “I’m gonna grab a coffee after I park this. You want anything?”

“Iced coffee,” Dean says, pulling at his sweaty shirt. It’s 9am and already the humidity is killing Dean. 

“You got it,” Sam says, getting into the truck and driving away.

Dean takes the opportunity to stand back and look at the stall in its entirety. His largest piece is in the center with other smaller displays taking up the vertical space of the tent. 

It probably won’t suck, Dean thinks. 

He looks around at the other people setting up. Across from him, a woman is hanging up colorful blown glass. Next to her is a stall dedicated to fine jewelry, and next to that is a stall advertising reusable straws. His neighbor on the right has more hats than Dean’s ever seen in one location, showcasing quite a few fedoras reminiscent of Indiana Jones that Dean smiles approvingly at. His neighbor on the left--

Dean finds himself standing directly in front of the stall without any recollection of walking there. He trails a reverent palm over the polished wood. It’s a warm, golden cabinet, something someone might have in their dining room. It’s thin, probably no more than 30 inches in width and a few inches taller than him. The doors and drawers are particularly striking, made of different wood than the body. The whole piece has a matte finish. 

“Hello.”

Dean turns around, startled, and immediately pulls his hand off the beautiful furniture. He tries not to look too guilty.

The man laughs softly. “It’s okay to touch.”

If it wasn’t so hot already, Dean might feel his cheeks warming. As it is, Dean’s able to save himself from further embarrassment. He turns to look at the piece again. “It’s really great work.”

“Thank you.”

“You the artist?” Dean asks.

“Castiel.” The name comes with a hand that Dean stares at dumbly. It’s tan, large and sturdy looking. 

“Dean,” he finally says, shaking Castiel’s hand. It’s calloused and warm.

“Nice to meet you, Dean. Are you an artist, too?” 

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Not in so many words. It’s tinkering mostly.”

“Modest,” Castiel says with a smile. “Where’s your stall, if I may ask?”

“Next door. I was just setting it up and noticed all the furniture.” 

Castiel turns to Dean’s stall, and much to Dean’s chagrin, he walks right over and starts looking at Dean’s things. Dean’s never felt comfortable calling what he does art. He takes old scraps of metal--forks, knives, screws and such--and creates objects. There’s the monster series, round metal figures with comical arms made out of forks or holding pitchforks made of nails. Most of them are screaming. They look more like the monsters in  _ Monsters, Inc _ . than the stuff of fear. He has another series he calls Gnome Be Gone, with one particularly ostentatious piece the width of a small car. In that one, gnomes are pierced by this or that, tiny and cute metal monsters tearing them apart. He’s not sure where the inspiration for this shit comes from, and if anyone had told him he’d be making a living off this crap when he’d first started making them in Bobby’s junkyard, he would’ve laughed in their faces. But here he is, doing exactly that. Fucking surreal.

“These are very whimsical,” Castiel says, holding one of the battle frogs. It holds a mini metal detector and has hands and feet made out of nails. “All lawn ornaments?” 

“I have some office stuff, too,” Dean points to the display with the tiniest objects he has: a business card holder made out of drill bits, a pencil cup with pliers for legs, a decorative frog joy riding a stapler, mouth wide open. He calls that one a staple wrangler.

Castiel picks up the frog and laughs. “Clever title. I always have a hard time naming things.”

“Think most of your stuff has names already.”

“Luckily,” Castiel says with a smirk. It occurs to Dean then that the man in front of him is very handsome. He’s got a strong jaw, very full lips, two of the bluest eyes Dean’s ever seen, and a head full of dark, tousled hair. He’s also fit, muscular under his thin, cotton shirt. His legs are hairy and his calves are huge. He probably runs, Dean thinks.

And he’s been quiet too long, not even hiding how blatantly he’s checking Castiel out. He clears his throat, self-conscious. Castiel is smiling a little, fiddling with a copper spider. 

A voice behind Dean breaks the awkwardness: “There are some really cool vendors here. I’ll have to come back with Jess. Here’s your coff--” Sam comes to a halt and stares at Castiel. “Um, hi.” 

“Sam, this is Castiel. Castiel, my giant of a little brother,” Dean introduces, unbelievably grateful for Sam’s timing. He ignores Sam’s glare and liberates the coffee from Sam’s equally giant hands.

Sam and Castiel greet each other and make small talk, with Sam aahing and oohing over Castiel’s furniture. Dean trails after them, taking long sips of the iced coffee. He doesn’t think he’ll ever eat or drink anything hot again, it’s so refreshing. 

He tunes in a little as Sam asks Castiel question after question about his process and the wood he uses. Castiel patiently answers each one, talks to both Dean and Sam as if it was Dean who had asked the questions. It makes Dean smile.

Dean learns that Castiel is based outside of Chicago, that he uses wood from the midwest but supplements with interesting pieces he finds elsewhere. When they start talking about the types of wood, Dean tunes them out to admire a set of cherry red nightstands, the legs elegantly tapered. Castiel’s furniture evokes a desire for a home of his own, where there would be enough space for each piece to stand out on it’s own, like in a museum except cozier and less forbidding. 

“Well, it’s really beautiful stuff, Castiel,” Sam says. 

“Thank you, Sam.”

“I gotta get going. I’m working half day today.”

“Thanks for helping out, Sammy,” Dean says sincerely.

“Of course,” Sam says, looking surprised. As if Dean never thanks him. “Bye, Castiel. See you around.”

Dean nods at Castiel and walks back to his stall. 

“You are going to do great,” Sam says, slapping Dean on the shoulder.

“Don’t need a pep talk, Sammy.”

“No pep talk. Just saying. I’ll come back with Jess this evening and help you lock up.”

Dean nods, pats Sam on the back and goes to sit on his folding chair. Now, he just has to wait.

*

The day goes well. Despite the heat, hundreds of people walk through. Many stop at his stall and smile at the figurines. He chats with them, answers questions, makes a few sales. The battle frogs are popular, as are the smaller monsters. The gnome eaters get the most interest but the fewest bites.

Around two, the sky opens up, heavy rain slicing the air and soaking through everything. He helps one of his neighbors pull a table of hats under the tent and gets soaked through in the process. He looks over to see Castiel doing the same with his neighbor, an older woman who is selling robes and swimsuit coverups. Castiel looks good with the rain-soaked light blue cotton clinging to his body, as transparent as a wet, white t-shirt. Castiel grins at him as he runs back to his stall.

Around eight, Sam and Jess show up. Jess has a small gift bag with her and when Dean inquires about it, she smiles brilliantly at Sam and tells Dean about the jewelry purchase.

“You romantic,” Dean teases Sam, who rolls his eyes.

The day ends at nine, shortly before sunset, and they all get to the long task of packing up. The fair runs for four days, and Dean’s been told he can leave the larger items, so he only packs the smaller pieces and locks up the stall. 

Castiel finishes around the same time they do and waves a friendly goodbye, tossing out a generic, “See you tomorrow,” as he walks away.

*

The next day is busier and hotter. The humidity hasn’t eased at all, and Dean feels sticky all over an hour into the day. He desperately wants something cold, so he pops over to Castiel’s stall and asks if he could keep an eye on Dean’s. Castiel nods and moves his chair closer to Dean’s stall. Dean walks half a block before finding a stall selling lemonade, rung out yellow shells piled high on the counter like anyone wanted proof it was the real stuff. He gets two large icies, one for Castiel, and forks over ten dollars. It’s more than he’s ever paid for lemonade, but fuck if it’s not the best thing he’s tasted in a long time. Perfectly sweet, tangy, and icy.

When he gets back, he pulls his folding chair near to Castiel and hands over the lemonade. Castiel takes a sip and looks inordinately grateful. Dean chuckles.

Customers come and go, and in between, Dean and Castiel chat. Castiel’s been to a lot of these fairs, having started close to a decade before Dean. He has a list of shows he does every summer, with stops in Milwaukee, Des Moines, Denver, and Ann Arbor among many others. Castiel shares some of the politics and logistics of these shows and Dean appreciates his candor. They also discover they’ll both be at several of the fairs, including St. Louis, Missouri, and Bloomington, Indiana. 

When lunch time rolls around, Castiel volunteers to get them something and Dean mans both their stalls. Castiel comes back twenty minutes later with tacos in warm, delicious tortillas, and two more lemonade slushies. Dean feels like he could cry for how refreshing it is. 

The day ends with another shower that does nothing to reduce the humidity. Sam shows up sans Jess to help him pack up and Dean tells him secondhand stories about fairs as they drive home.

*

The weekend starts the way the week ends: stifled in heat and humidity. It doesn’t deter the waves of people who walk through the fair. If anything, Saturday’s the worst of the crowd. He’s made more money selling his junk in the last two and a half days than he has the last six months at the farmers markets, though, so he’s not entirely unhappy. The way he figures it, he’ll walk away with a decent amount after the stall and fair registration fees are paid. 

Castiel starts off the day sitting close to Dean’s stall, so Dean follows suit and parks his chair next to Castiel’s. They aren’t able to keep up much of a conversation, though, not with the barrage of customers. They barely manage to work out lunch, with Dean getting them pizza sometime around two in the afternoon when there’s a brief lull.

At the end of the day, Dean is sticky and exhausted and a little too wired from all the sales. That people want to and do buy his products is too surreal. He feels a little manic and giddy when he asks Castiel if he’d like to grab a drink. By weekend standards, it’s early, only ten at night, but they’ve just worked thirteen hours with no real breaks, so Dean is totally prepared for Castiel to blow him off. Instead, Castiel looks relieved and says, “God, yes.”

They store their bags in their respective trucks and walk to a bar together. On the way, Castiel hands Dean a packet of wet wipes. 

Dean raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Wet wipes?”

“Essential,” Castiel says, running a wipe over the back of his neck and under his collar. 

Dean wonders if this is a hint that he smells and opens up the packet to clean himself off. After, he is surprised to feel refreshed and far less sticky. “Thanks,” he says, and Castiel smirks.

Practically every bar is crowded with fairgoers, and they walk through three before finding one with a couple of seats in the far corner. It’s blessedly air conditioned, and for the first time all day, Dean feels like he can breathe fully. 

“I never asked,” Castiel says once they settle in and get their beers. Dean peers at him curiously and raises an eyebrow. “Why metal? Or used objects for that matter.”

“My foster parents--well, now they’re just parents because they eventually adopted us--own a junkyard. Cars mostly, but metal is metal.” 

“You were a foster kid?”

Dean nods, affecting casualness. “Mom and dad died in a house fire. Bobby and Karen took both Sam and I in. Then they decided to keep us.” 

“That’s a really good thing they did.”

Dean smiles, feeling a combined bite of loss and gratitude, love and sadness. “Yeah, they’re good people.” He drinks his beer and watches Castiel pick at the label on his. “What about you? What got you into carpentry?” 

“Jesus,” Castiel deadpans.

Dean laughs, hard. Castiel’s expressionless facade breaks into a small grin. 

“I have a degree in botany, but I found research to be dull and conservation work draining. This somehow became a happy medium.” 

“That sounds so… legit,” Dean says. “Bobby just gave me a hammer and a blowtorch and told me to work out my anger.”

“And it manifested in tiny metal monsters and warrior frogs,” Castiel teases lightly. 

“Hey, they’re cute tiny metal monsters. Useful, too, ‘cause they get rid of gnomes.” Dean shudders. He does not like gnomes.

“Okay, I have to hear this. What is so wrong with gnomes?”

“What--” Dean sputters. “Let me tell you!” He turns around to fully face Castiel. Castiel mirrors him, their knees knocking until Castiel adjusts his legs so that his right is just outside Dean’s left. The feel of Castiel’s warm, hairy leg against his distracts Dean, and he reaches for his drink to buy some time to find the train of thought he seems to have lost entirely. What were they talking about again? Dead parents, strange coping mechanisms, and oh, right, gnomes. 

“One,” Dean starts, “they are  _ ugly _ . Brightly colored, weird hats, weirder expressions. I mean, why would anyone put them on their lawns?”

“You sell your art at an art fair, Dean. People like what they like,” Castiel says, chuckling.

“Yes, but gnomes? No. And I haven’t made all my arguments.”

Castiel gestures as if to say,  _ the floor’s yours _ . 

“As I was saying, they’re ugly, hideous creatures. They are also mystical and nasty. When was the last time you saw a good gnome and not a trickster or a jewel thief?”

“I can’t say I’ve paid that much attention to gnomes.”

“See, you can’t.” 

“But aren’t they meant to be protectors? Good luck charms?”

“That’s what they want you to think! But you really can’t trust them.” 

They hold a straight face for about thirty seconds before breaking into laughter. “I just think they’re ugly,” Dean says eventually.

“Ah, the real reason. Well, I can understand that,” Castiel says.

They both turn back to their drinks, legs sliding against each other more than is strictly necessary. He looks at Castiel from the corner of his eye, watches his hand wrap around his drink. They are really nice hands. “So, where do you stay when you’re in town?” 

Castiel is a little slow to respond, but Dean doesn’t look up to see what he might be thinking. “A motel on the outskirts of town. There’s a surge in pricing when they expect a lot of out of towners.”

“Yeah, I had a real fun time booking something for the other fairs,” Dean says sarcastically. He looks more directly at Castiel now, sees an open, curious expression. Friendly, too. “My place is like twenty minutes away.”

Castiel leans forward, entering Dean’s personal space. Dean wants to look around to see who might be watching, but those blue eyes hold him in place. “Is that an invitation?” 

“Do you want it to be?” Dean asks, reflexibly defensive.

Castiel laughs. “Let’s close out our tabs.”

Dean nods, mouth suddenly dry. “Yup,” he says, redundantly, and flags down the bartender.

*

The first few moments after bringing someone home for the first time can be strange, awkward, especially when nothing explicit has been worked out and you drove separately. Dean watches Castiel get out of his truck and pause to admire the car he’s parked next to. Dean grins proudly. “See you have good taste.”

“She your’s?” 

Dean pats the hood of his Impala fondly. “This lady here is Baby.”

“She’s beautiful,” Castiel says, all admiration. He has good taste in cars, so maybe it won’t be so awkward, Dean thinks.

Dean lets them into the building and up to his third floor walk-up. It’s a small one-bedroom, his second apartment since moving out of Bobby and Karen’s, and much better than the basement-level studio he’d started with. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” Dean asks once they’re inside. 

“Water would be good.”

Dean turns on the air conditioner on his way to the kitchen. The place is a little stuffy since Dean’s not aired it out in days, but it’s clean. Dean returns with two glasses of ice water and finds Castiel awkwardly loitering in his living room. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says and downs most of the glass in one go. Dean watches, taken by the line of Castiel’s throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple. The man is a walking thirst trap if Dean ever saw one.

“That’s impressive,” Dean says, putting his glass down on the coffee table.

“What?” Castiel does the same with his significantly emptier glass. 

“How long you can hold your breath.” Castiel laughs, and Dean invades his space. “Come here,” he says as he pulls Castiel’s head towards his.

Their first kiss is dry, Castiel’s lips a little chilled against Dean’s. It’s nice.

Castiel moves a step closer to Dean, hands going around Dean’s waist, and the kiss deepens. Castiel’s tongue is a cold, silky slide against Dean’s, and the first contact is so good that they both moan.

The kiss multiplies to more, heads tilted at first this and then that angle. Dean is half hard and grows more frantic by the second. “Clothes, off,” he mumbles against Castiel’s lips.

“Might go faster if we do it separately.” Castiel kisses him deeply as if he’s punctuating his sentence with several exclamation marks and maybe a few emojis.

Dean nods and starts pulling at his t-shirt. “And move to the bedroom. This couch is not very comfortable.” 

Castiel nods and begins to unbutton his shirt, a mint green threadbare cotton today. Dean pulls off his t-shirt, unbuttons his shorts and walks backward into the bedroom, enjoying the sight of Castiel stripping efficiently. 

They are both naked by the time they reach Dean’s unmade bed and Dean turns on the bedside lamp to better see Castiel. He’s gorgeous, all lean lines and sinuous muscles. He doesn’t have much chest hair, and his stomach is soft, the V of his hip bones slightly prominent. His cock is fully hard now, dark and full. 

Dean moves towards Castiel at the same time as Castiel moves towards him. They groan when their bodies make contact, Castiel’s cock hot against Dean’s stomach, Castiel’s mouth trailing to Dean’s jaw, his neck.

“Fuck,” Dean says, feeling breathless and reaching between them to feel Castiel’s cock.

Castiel walks them forward the two steps to the bed, and Dean falls back onto the mattress. He scoots back and Castiel follows.

“Nice bed,” Castiel says absently as he straddles Dean and lines them up.

“Memory foam,” Dean says, thrusting up and into the warm tunnel of Castiel’s hand, enjoying the feel of their cocks together. He blindly reaches for his nightstand and grabs the lube. 

“I don’t think I’m going to last that long,” Castiel pants.

“Me neither,” Dean says, uncapping and drizzling a generous amount onto his hand. Then he reaches for them and gets their cocks slicker.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Castiel says.

Dean laughs, pleased, and falls back on the bed. Pulls Castiel down and starts to thrust up against him. Castiel catches on quick, and they get a decent rhythm going.

Dean comes first, flying over the edge with Castiel biting his neck. Castiel sits up and works himself hard and fast with his hands. Dean watches through hooded eyes and his dick twitches for how hot the sight is. Castiel comes on Dean’s stomach, hot spurts impressively reaching the hollow of Dean’s sternum. 

Then Castiel is lying on his back next to Dean.

“Washcloths in the bathroom,” Dean says. 

Castiel growls low in his throat. “It’s your place.”

“You came on me, you have to clean us up.”

“Is that the rule now?” Castiel sounds amused, but he gets up. Dean is drifting by the time Castiel returns with a warm washcloth and cleans up. 

“Just toss it into the bathroom and get over here.”

“You’re bossy after an orgasm,” Castiel says. Dean snorts, eyes falling shut. Castiel must’ve done what Dean suggested because he’s crawling back into bed seconds later.

*

Dean wakes up to a warm mouth wrapped around his cock and decides he loves life. Castiel is good, applying the perfect amount of suction and slick, bringing Dean off in a few exquisite minutes. He’d be embarrassed for his lack of stamina, but two orgasms in less than twelve hours leaves him dopey and relaxed.

“Turn to your side,” Castiel says, his voice raw and rough.

Dean complies, reaches for the lube and passes it to Castiel. Castiel lifts one of Dean’s legs up and slicks his inner thighs. Then he’s hot and slick between Dean’s thighs, the warm length of him all across Dean’s back. Dean reaches back to grab Castiel’s hair. Castiel’s lips land on his shoulder, move to his ear where he sucks in Dean’s earlobe and gently bites at the shell. Dean feels surrounded, Castiel’s heat all along his back, Castiel’s hand against Dean’s chest, fingers grazing over Dean’s nipple with each thrust. The sound of skin against skin, Castiel’s low grunts, and Deans short breath fills Dean’s ears.

He moves his hand lower, reaching for Castiel’s ass, and Castiel moans a string of expletives at the contact, comes. 

“That’s a good way to wake up,” Dean says after, laughing. Castiel falls back on the bed, splayed out and spent. Dean lies on his back and notices the condom on his flaccid cock. He pulls it off, ties it lazily and tosses it in the bin next to his side of the bed.

“Hmm,” Castiel says.

“What time is it?” Dean asks. His hand reaches for Castiel again, and Castiel holds it against his stomach, intertwining their fingers.

“A little past eight probably.”

It’s the last day of the fair and they don’t have to be there till noon. “You want breakfast?”   


“Yes, but maybe a nap and shower first.”

Dean chuckles and lets himself drift back to sleep, his hand rising and falling with each of Castiel’s breath.

*

There are fewer people at the end of the day. Most of the vendors start breaking down their setups well before six when the fair is scheduled to end. Dean starts doing inventory around five, feeling good on a number of levels. He’s had really great sex twice in the last twenty-four hours, for one, and he’s sold his giant Gnome Be Gone sculpture. Bobby had been impressed by this feat when he and Karen stopped by early in the day. He’d looked proud, too, said, “You did good, boy,” in a way that left Dean feeling a high he was somewhat reluctant to admit.

Sam returns to help him haul the remaining inventory. Without the large sculpture, packing and disassembly goes quickly. Dean watches Castiel as they clean up. Castiel has hired help to load all the furniture onto the trailer attached to his truck. Most of the pieces look heavy--they’re solid wood, so they probably are--and Dean’s glad to see he’s got help. 

When they’re nearly finished, Dean walks over to Castiel’s broken down stall. “So, you heading out?” 

Castiel turns around and smiles. He has a roll of bubble wrapper in his hand. “Yes. I can probably reach Springfield by midnight and do the last leg to Chicago tomorrow.”

Dean nods, feeling something akin to disappointment. “Safe travels and all that.”

Castiel smiles, reaches for Dean’s arm with his free hand. “I’ll see you in Indiana next month?”

“Won’t miss it,” Dean promises.

Castiel leans forward and kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean turns his face and kisses him fully. It’s chaste, but it leaves Dean’s heart racing.

“See ya, Cas,” he says when he pulls away. And with a last look, he turns around to see a smirking Sam. “Shut up,” Dean says without heat.

“I didn’t say anything!” Sam protests, grinning. “Bye, Castiel!” He waves to Castiel. Dean doesn’t look back to see if Castiel is waving back.

*

Dean spends the next month creating shit. He spends long hours welding together metal, hammering parts to make more battle frogs. He watches a nature show about fish late one night and then spends the next few days looking up deep ocean creatures, drawing up hammer head angler fish and brainstorming what materials he can use. He makes a few imperfect versions before getting it right. The smaller items sold well at the fair, so he makes more desk items, spiders and venus fly traps that can serve as paper clip holders or candy dishes. Karen mentions some kids she saw in town wearing gears and widgets as jewelry and Dean sets about making pendant size versions of his frogs and monsters. Sam orders him some chains to hang them on and Bobby welds together a new display. He tests them out at the farmers market and they sell well.

It’s a good month. Hotter than any Kansas summer Dean can remember, but nice, too. He finds himself wondering what Castiel might think of his newer creations but feels too shy to text him pictures. Instead, he sends boring photos of Kansas farmland and plants he doesn’t know the names of. Castiel helpfully classifies them, describes their more interesting properties and folklore associated with them. Once, Dean finds a bed of purple flowers with marigold centers and Castiel asks if Dean sees yellow flowers on long stems. Dean does, and sends back a wide shot of the wildflowers growing together. Castiel tells him those are asters and goldenrods, that they like to grow together in the wild. He describes the symbiotic relationship, two flowers vibrantly attracting bees to them.

For his part, Castiel sends Dean photos of the most ostentatious art he sees. There’s a stall full of giant mermaids twice as tall as Dean, all made of brightly painted metal, in Des Moines. From Denver, Castiel sends photos of a furniture stall with the ugliest upholstery Dean’s ever seen. No single piece carries the same motif. There’s a wingback with burlap siding and ugly floral cushions and a half plaid, half solid back. There’s a sofa covered in similarly mismatched fabrics. Even the colors are uncoordinated, as though a blind maniac set on destroying eyeballs chose the combinations. In Ann Arbor, Castiel hits peak ugliness (though Dean would’ve argued that impossible after Denver): he sends pictures of some of the most offensive gnomes Dean has ever seen. They are holding phallic objects, flipping people off, pointing machine guns. One particularly distressing group are wearing what appears to be brightly colored onesies that are all thong in the back. It sets Dean off on a rant about the evils of gnomes and inspires another series of Gnome Be Gone pieces. 

When the time to head to Indiana finally rolls around, Dean is stupidly nervous and giddy. Sam helps him load everything into the truck and yells, “Say hi to Cas for me,” as Dean starts the truck. He flips off Sam, and drives the eight hour to Bloomington, stopping only to refuel and stretch his legs. 

It’s late afternoon by the time he reaches his motel in Bloomington, and Dean decides to take a shower and a nap before attempting anything else. He makes it to the fair a few hours later with maybe an hour of daylight left. It’s enough for him to find his spot and, with the help of a fair volunteer, unload the largest piece, a new Gnome Be Gone destroyer. He’s even welded a fairly decent sized tank. 

Castiel texts as Dean is setting up the display shelving. “Here already?”

“Just setting up the shelves. Stall NU808.” 

Ten minutes later, a very tan and still hot as Dean remembers, maybe hotter, Castiel stands in front of him. Dean’s not sure how to greet him, so they end up in an awkward hug, Castiel’s lips grazing Dean’s cheeks and setting off a swarm of butterflies in Dean’s stomach. 

“It would seem that we are clear across the fair from each other,” Castiel says when they break apart. Dean notes that Castiel doesn’t leave Dean’s personal space much. He doesn’t step back either.

“You’re kidding,” he says, pulling out the map from his back pocket. This fair is laid out like a capital I, with Dean on the bottom left end. Castiel points to the top center and Dean groans. “Well, that sucks.”

“Hmm,” Castiel agrees. “Are you finished here? Is Sam with you?”

“Almost and no. He said to say hi, though,” Dean says, glaring at the map.

“Tell him I said hello,” Castiel says distractedly. His eyes are on Dean’s newest monstrosity, and he chuckles at the sight. “I like this.”

“Got a big enough space for it?” Dean jokes.

“Not yet,” Castiel says seriously. When he looks up, his eyes are bright with amusement. “Come on, I’ll help you finish and then we can get dinner. There’s a burger place I like here.” 

“Man on a mission. I like it,” Dean says. He tells Castiel what needs unloading and then it’s a quick half hour of work to finish up everything.

Dean works with a low-grade anticipation slowly building in strength, like all of this is just a prelude to getting Castiel alone. His hands itch to touch him, and more than a few times, they bump into each other, pulled by an invisible but palpable force.

Dinner is delicious. Juicy burger, crispy and tender potato wedges, decent beer. Dean practically moans around each bite, performing more appreciation than the food warrants when he notices Castiel watching, slack-jawed and burger raised halfway to his mouth. Yeah, they are gonna have fun.

*

Castiel’s mouth is on Dean’s before the door to Castiel’s motel room fully closes. Dean might have chuckled at the enthusiasm, but he feels the heady rush of reacquainting himself to Castiel’s lips after a month of foreplay and busies himself with kissing back. Castiel’s hands are everywhere, sliding under Dean’s t-shirt and into his shorts. Dean feels hot and frantic, mouth moving over Castiel’s day old stubble, tasting salty skin and feeling high on the smell of Castiel. He smells like wood chips and sunshine, musky and bright. 

“I’ve been thinking about fucking you for a month,” Castiel says against Dean’s mouth. Dean’s dick hardens painfully and he gasps as Castiel palms him.

“Well fucking get to it then,” he says belatedly.

Castiel chuckles, looking pleased and happy. Dean grins.

As though by silent agreement, they pull away to shed their clothes. Dean pulls back the covers and Castiel digs in his bag, brandishing lube and condoms. 

“Ambitious,” Dean says when he sees the long strip of condoms. Castiel glares and Dean chuckles.

Then they end up in bed, Castiel kissing and licking a path down to Dean’s erection. He pauses briefly to tear open a condom and roll it down Dean’s length. Then he takes Dean in, engulfing Dean’s cock fully in the hot, hot heat of his mouth. Dean moans in surprise, body folding in half. Castiel pulls off to chuckle and looks coyly up at Dean through his lashes.

“Bastard,” Dean growls, hand finding its way to Castiel’s head, fingers tangling in Castiel’s soft hair and guiding him back. 

Castiel applies himself to sucking Dean’s dick for a few minutes, and Dean moans in pleasure. When he feels himself edging closer, he pulls Castiel off him. “If you’re going to fuck me, better start now,” he says, voice hoarse and thready.

“You are so demanding,” Castiel says, tone entirely too fond to Dean’s ears.

Dean tosses the lube to him. “Yeah, and you love it.”

“I do,” Castiel says sincerely, and Dean swears he feels his cheeks improbably warming.

They don’t talk much after that. Castiel opens him up at an agonizingly slow pace that has Dean panting and struggling to keep his hand from reaching for his cock. His eyes are closed by the time Castiel leaves him to reach for a condom. The action leaves Dean feeling empty and needy; he reaches out to find Castiel by touch. 

“I’ve got you,” Castiel says softly and kisses Dean. It’s intimate and tender and fucks with Dean’s head. He feels untethered, losing his sense of time and space, focusing solely on his body and everything Castiel is making him feel.

Castiel pulls away again, tears open another condom. As he rolls it on, Dean takes the one on him off, breathes even though it’s a tall order. “How do you want to do this?” Dean asks.

“Like this,” Castiel says. “That okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, opening up his legs a little wider, as wide as they’ll go, so Castiel falls comfortably in between them.

“Give me a pillow,” Castiel says and Dean fumbles for one. Castiel slides it under Dean, tilting his pelvis up. Then his fingers are back at Dean’s hole, stretching him open before replacing it with his hard, hot cock. 

Dean gasps as Castiel fills him, sliding inch by glorious inch. When he bottoms out, he rests his head under Dean’s chin and mutters, “Fuck.” 

Dean breathes with him, one, two, three, his body adjusting to being so completely filled. His cock is trapped between them, demanding attention, so he shifts his hip to get some friction.

Castiel snorts softly. “Impatient, too.”

Before Dean can respond, Castiel starts moving, shallow thrusts that turn into long, languorous slides that hit Dean’s prostate more times than not. Dean’s eyes roll back, and he feels Castiel gripping his thighs, maneuvering him for the best angle. He achieves it with one of Dean’s legs draped over Castiel’s hip, and then he’s hitting Dean’s prostate at nearly every thrust.

“Do you-- Can you--” Castiel rasps.

Dean opens his eyes to look at him and Castiel is a sweaty, golden vision. Dean is so fucked, he thinks distantly, unironically. 

Castiel fucks him harder and looks pointedly down at Dean’s dick. Dean looks at it dumbly. He’d forgotten it was there, leaking onto his stomach. He wraps his hand around it and starts to jerk himself. Castiel fucks him with renewed vigor and it’s not long at all before Dean is coming, mind going blank and losing all senses except for the distant feel of Castiel fucking him into the bed before collapsing heavily on him.

When awareness returns, Dean notices that Castiel is lying next to him, already starting to doze. Dean reaches for the top sheet and wipes them with it before pulling it aside and covering them with the comforter. The room is chilly and Castiel is perfectly warm as he snuffles against Dean’s neck. Dean sleeps, satiated and content.

*

The weekend flies by. Dean doesn’t see much of Castiel during the day and misses the company. They make up for it at night, fucking each other earnestly before falling into blissful slumber. Then it’s time for them to pack up and head back to their respective cities.

They see each other again two weeks later in St. Louis. Dean cancels his motel reservation. It’s not like he used it much in Indiana, he reasons. The St. Louis fair is bigger than the two prior, but by some miracle, Castiel ends up with a stall directly across from him. It still doesn’t give him much access, what with the onslaught of curious fairgoers, but Dean enjoys watching Castiel at work. Tells him so when they fuck at night, describing in detail all the things he’d imagined doing to Castiel, how he was half hard and so distracted that he didn’t even negotiate very well with the woman who bought his largest Gnome Be Gone installation. Castiel grunts in affirmation and fucks Dean till he’s babbling nonsense, blissed out and happy.

*

Dean’s only booked for one more fair and it arrives at a snail’s pace. He spends the tail end of July and most of August making more things to sell and texting Castiel. They move on from the photo conversations, though Castiel still sends the occasional shot of ugly art. Castiel asks Dean a lot of questions, so many that he gets tired of typing up answers and just calls him instead. Castiel picks up after a few rings and sounds surprised. Then Dean regales him stories of his life, remembering people and things he hasn’t thought about in ages. Asks some of his own questions and learns more about Castiel. 

The phone calls become a regular thing, and on a few memorable occasions, Castiel calls late in the evening and talks Dean off. Dean’s never had anything remotely close to phone sex before, but damn if he’s not a big fan now. 

In late August, he drives out to Nashville. He’s restless and something else he can’t quite name. It’s been five weeks since he last saw Castiel, and he might not see him at all after this. That little bit has him feeling some kind of way, and the nine hour drive feels more like eighteen.

Despite getting an early start, Castiel beats him to the hotel. Dean is comically happy about this turn of events and tackles Castiel to the bed. “Good to see you, too,” Castiel says, laughing warmly.

Afterward, Dean leans into Castiel, his head resting on Castiel’s shoulder in a way that Dean will swear to his dying day is not cuddling. Castiel’s fingers card through the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, and in the relative quiet of the room, Dean falls asleep savoring everything and not thinking about what comes next.

*

Nashville is fun, Dean decides. After a long, hot day, they share a shower and get each other off. Then Castiel takes him out into town and they listen to live music, drink really good whisky, and eat some of the best barbecue Dean’s ever had. Afterward, Castiel brings him back to their hotel room and fucks him so slowly and for so long that it makes Dean want to cry for how good it is. 

Like the other weekends, this one slips away like water through a net. On their last night together, Castiel says, “I’ve been thinking about moving for over a year now.”

The topic splinters Dean’s post-coital inertia and he raises his head to look at Castiel curiously.

Castiel doesn’t look at him directly, just cards his hand through Dean’s hair, fingers sliding from temple to the back of Dean’s head again and again. “I just couldn’t decide where,” he says. “And it would take me months to move everything, but I could work anywhere.”

“Come to Kansas.” The words are out of his mouth before he’s fully aware that they’ve formed. 

Castiel meets his eyes then. “Okay,” he says softly. 

Something inside of Dean blooms warm and happy. “Okay,” he says and kisses Castiel softly. “Okay.” 

**Author's Note:**

> No gnomes were hurt in the writing of this fic. Descriptions of Dean’s art was inspired by [Juan Pollock’s work](https://sugarpost.com/).


End file.
